I hope I never have to write a eulogy like the one that appears elsewhere on this page, written by a reporter for a newspaper in northern California that has been covering the catastrophic Dixie Fire (she graciously allowed us to reprint the article). I don’t know that I could do it with the same powerful mixture of sentiment and eloquence, if I could even summon the courage at all.
Margaret Elysia Garcia didn’t compose “A eulogy for Greenville” as a reporter, although she brings a reporter’s keen eye for detail and context to her writing. She wrote it as the grieving survivor of her community’s demise, with passion and affection for a place she had come to love. On a sad occasion, her eulogy is a joyous celebration of community, a personal recounting that is as genuine as it is poignant. I defy you to read it without getting a little emotional. This is what it feels like to lose the place where you not only live but also identify with at a subatomic level.
Garcia’s column was sent to me by a friend who knows the Methow well. I read it with a growing realization that Garcia could have been writing about our valley in many respects. Much of what she describes feels strikingly familiar, if not identical. It resonates with an intimacy that only comes from inhabiting a place long enough to understand, accept and revel in the idiosyncrasies and quirks that give it a distinct character. By the time you finish the article, you know all about Greenville and what it was like to be part of it. (Serendipitously, Garcia refers to the Evergreen Market where people used to regularly encounter each other. Does that sound familiar?)
Our towns have been threatened, evacuated, ringed by flames and smothered in smoke. But we haven’t lost them. It’s unimaginable, but we all know it’s possible. Garcia’s “A eulogy for Greenville” is a reminder to appreciate the relationships that define our lives, the small, precious things that we may take for granted, the history that has formed us, the setting that enchants us, the bonds that hold us together even when stretched to the breaking point, and the personality traits that set our place apart from all others. This community is rebuildable, but it’s not replaceable.
Construction zone
There are plenty of examples around the valley of how big construction jobs or complicated infrastructure projects get done — which is, slowly but steadily with incremental progress. Examples include the Winthrop library, the new Okanogan County Fire District 6 fire hall, the new Twisp Town Hall and the new pub at Mazama (although that seems to taking form in a hurry). Only time-lapse photography offers a sense of things actually happening in a demonstrative way. Day-to-day observation, not so much.
For the past several weeks I’ve been living literally in the middle of a major project in Twisp, along with quite a few other neighbors on West Twisp Avenue. Contractors are replacing water and sewer lines, and will then repave a street the desperately needed it.
The crews are working in tight quarters. The street is narrow, the construction equipment (excavators, loaders, trucks, things I don’t recognize) is large, the work demanding: they have to dig up, take out and replace the water and sewer systems that serve the neighborhood, then fill in the excavations. At the same time, they have to leave room for the people who live on the street to come and go at all times, and not impede driveways. It’s complicated.
Some of us live closer to Highway 20 and don’t have to navigate as much torn-up ground. I live at the very end of the street, so have to travel its entire rutted, rock-strewn length at least twice a day, squeezing past men and machines at work, sometimes with inches to spare. The construction workers are conscious of our need to get through, and make the best of it. Every day, I see progress.
One of my neighbors at the end of the street nearest the highway dropped into the newspaper office the other day to enquire why I hadn’t written anything about the project and how it was going. I told him I thought it would be self-serving for the newspaper editor to write a news article about a project that affects me directly. He scoffed at the notion and pointed out that the readers’ need for information outweighs any high-falutin’ conflict-of-interest concerns. Point taken. But ultimately, there’s only one reliable prognostication for any sizeable project: It’ll be done when it’s done.
